Learning a Name
by Jateshi
Summary: Shou Riko lives on the outskirts of Rukongai with a sword sword. What would make a kid outside of the Shimigami Academy learn their sword's name - and how much can you learn without lessons? OC, one-shot, slightly gruesome zanpakutou


AN: I'm not dead! I've seriously gotten into Bleach and while this is about an OC I've been writing a few Ichigo ones...  
Summary: You don't have to be a shinigami at the academy to learn your sword's name. Maybe.

**Everything Starts with a Name**  
_"Words are the power - if something can't be said it can't be thought." (paraphrasing George Orwell)_

Riko had been on the outskirts of Rukongai for a long time, using the almost lawless way of life as a constant training ground. Being so far outside the laws of Seireitei meant that lots of people had swords, none of them were official, and all of them were dangerous. It wasn't that she was in their number - she was better than the ruffians, better than the garbage which crossed her path. Somewhere, she knew, her blade had a name. It wasn't some street-discarded katana though she wrapped the hilt up like it was broken; she knew it was a real thing. Sometimes she heard whispers when she was alone, a voice just beyond her hearing.

She dreamed though, odd dreams about a woman trapped inside a tree. It was unlike any of the gnarled trees which dotted the clearing she slept in day after day - it was beautiful. It had delicate leaves with beautiful pristine blossoms that smelled of some scent she could never name. Something pure though, something almost innocent. The woman clawed at the trunks' walls and in her dreams eventually the woman broke through the wall of fiber holding her captive. She kept trying to speak but the words blew away like the delicate flowers on the tree's branches.

The first time she dreamed about the tree, before she even knew it had a woman inside, she woke up with a sword clutched in her hands. The gold on the hilt was hard enough that it didn't scuff and dent when it dragged on the ground - she was young that first time and the sword was so heavy for her to try to lift or play with. It sometimes seemed that she'd never be old enough, tall enough, to lift the katana properly but puberty brought the much-needed height to let her wrap cloth around her clothes as an improvised belt and seat the sword there. Ken gave her lessons, before he died - a wave of Hollows trying to make their way into the heart of Rukongai brought down many of the fighters of the seedy area. The woman clawed two hands through the tree's branches during that battle, Riko vaguely recalled, the branches melting into the trunk by the end until she had arms again.

Slowly wisps of hair emerged, followed by a forehead, then eyes. It was like the tree was reluctantly relinquishing its treasure and the woman began to take on shape. She had beautiful robes by the time Riko counted herself eighteen, the flowing kimono hiding what remained of the trunk. She saw her less and less once the woman tied an obi around her waist almost like her part in learning about her was over and Riko missed that. She tied a little scrap of purple cloth around the shealth decoratively and one night the woman gave her a smile at the gesture; it was purple and just as delicate at the ornaments the woman had in her hair when Riko woke up, a proper silk tie with a folded ribbon flower and bead. She tried to speak to the woman once but the dream ended as soon as she opened her mouth and eventually as the dreams faded away to memories when the year had rolled around she'd stopped trying.

The sound as the blade hit the side of the Hollow's mask, too deflected to cut through it, was beautiful. It was the start of a melody and she thought she heard the beginning or end of a word in the musical tone but it was too brief and short to really know. The next stroke of the blade ended the Hollow and it cried out disjointedly. So she started to fight again instead of just living, she secretly watched what few shinigami came this far out of the center of Rukongai, and she learned. She found odd tutors in combat and in kidou, enough to get a base on the shinigami's spells and learn she had a talent for a few of them. The next time she attacked a Hollow she heard a clear start of a word but she knew it wasn't a name, not yet. It was close though - she and her blade were starting to agree and meet each other.

The last Hollow she took out nearly took her arm but she used every trick possible to keep herself alive and to make it dead. She finally slammed the tang against a rock which made a pleasant (to her) chime but the Hollow screamed and was distracted. Bleeding she took a leap and sliced its mask, her form falling apart as she stumbled on her landing. But it dissipated, returning to whatever land birthed the Hollow race, blood pouring from a hole in her shoulder. Falling to her knees she thought she heard a soft voice speak to grab her attention but her eyes closed, sword still gripped in her hand but hand covered in blood.

It was a lack of pain that woke her up, eyes shooting open but dulled from exhaustion. She stood up and looked around, noting the odd crescent moon in the sky. The air was heavy with the scent of night and flowers, the same blossoms from the tree she always had dreamed about. As she turned back to face the same direction she'd woken up in she saw the robes, the form, of the lady in the tree, the one with no name. Her skin was sallow and looked like it was right on the verge of becoming the paper skin of the dead, her eyes were sunken, her hair pulled back like a rich lady's but strands floating away in the non-existent breeze. Hanging over her head were black, rotted leaves dotted with beautiful dying flowers, framed by the beautiful bloody moon. She noticed how light her sword felt and looked down seeing nothing more than a hilt and a guard but the blade was gone.

"You're..." Riko started to speak but then let the words die, remembering how quickly the dreams had always ended before when she'd spoken. But this time the surreal night didn't shatter and the woman didn't shake her head. She imagined that the woman was smiling behind her collar-like wrap, the breeze surrounding her making the leaves of the tree growing out of her back rustle.

"Chouzan," the woman said, holding out a sleeve-draped hand. Something like vines rustled as the woman was suddenly close enough to be touched by Riko, the pearls from her hair tinking against each other as she waited.

Taking Chouzan's hand Riko knew her expression was something between awe and fascination. "Shou - Riko. I'm Riko." As soon as she took Chouzan's hand she felt knowledge sinking into her mind like a soft song. It was pleasant, like Chouzan herself was, a death song which celebrated the life that was protected and cherished and remembered in death. It made her smile at the older woman, bangs falling away from her eyes. "You're my katana?"

"Yes, Shou Riko," her voice was beautiful but raspy, not from disuse but from something else, like there was an extra hole of air in the way of her words. "I am your zanpakutou. I've watched you grow and now - now - you were ready to hear my name. When you need to fight, Riko, call for me and I will come to your side from now until your death." She smiled, or Riko imagined she smiled, when she said that. The breeze that had only surrounded Chouzan blew and stirred the Riko's hair now, carrying the sweet sick scent on it that filled her everyday life.

Riko suspected it was because Chouzan already was half-dead, or dead, or something else. She remembered stories of spirits trapped in trees, sobbing women who clawed men's eyes out - Chouzan might do that but not to her. The hand under the silk felt odd but she remembered Chouzan ripping out from the trunk of the tree in her dreams and she knew that it must have left a mark on her body. But in a world painted with so much blood Chouzan was comforting - beauty in death, a reminder of the precious things. She reminded Riko of her forgotten mother and her smile was as tender as she imagined a mother's would be. "Does it have to be a fight," Riko finally asked.

"What would we talk about," Chouzan countered, looking more animated now than Riko had (in their brief encounter) ever seen her look.

Riko looked at the odd night world they were in with the overly large red moon hanging high in the sky like midnight, the vague feeling that there was something familiar to explore and rediscover here; the waves of grass felt as comforting as Chouzan's hidden smile did. "Everything," she replied at last, inhaling the night scent with a deep breath. "Anything." It was the closest she'd come to real human contact since the people who inhabited the outer lands of the city were mongrels not humans, vicious fury and weapons and none of the conversation in words, just growls. She'd always talked to her katana before, pouring out her memories (the scattered things that passed for them) and hopes and now there was the hope that Chouzan would speak to and she wouldn't be alone. "We can learn about each other - and with each other." The brief glimpses of shinigami meant she knew that a katana - zanpakutou, she corrected, knowing the word carried far more importance than a 'mere' blade - had powers and abilities.

"Perhaps later, Shou Riko." Chouzan's words broke the world apart and Riko blinked eyes open to the field.

In her hand the blade was completely there again, lifting the hilt up and catching a glint of sunlight off of the keen edge. Her shoulder barely even ached, the blood stopped and gone. Chouzan. Her sword. She stared at the steel in wonder.


End file.
